


Lost Years and Lonely Hearts

by lovefrom221bboys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefrom221bboys/pseuds/lovefrom221bboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just tell me the truth for once.<br/>Just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Years and Lonely Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to 'Love Love Love' of Monsters and Men, and I just had to write this. It's not beta'ed, so sorry for mistakes. I hope you like it <3

Two years.

Two years without him. Without his presence, without his face, his smile, his sulking, his running, his mad brilliance, his infuriating experiments, his annoying know-it-allness, his low voice that melts like honey in my ears, his hair his hands his music his everything. Two years without his everything. Without his anything. Without him breathing.

I mourned for him. I grieved and grieved and grieved until I was empty and hollow and there was nothing left inside me.

Two years and he just stood there. With those silly black lines above his lips and those stupid glasses on his nose and that silly smile on his stupid face.

For a moment I thought I was back in my nightmares. I thought the universe would never stop laughing at me.

So I stood up and I started strangling him because he had a stupid French accent, because he'd fooled me, because I was about to propose and share my life with someone else, because I'd moved on, because it took him two years to come back to life, to come back to me. Because he'd only had to come two days -two _fucking_ days- earlier and I wouldn't have stood here. Not like this. Not with a ring tucked away in my jacket.

Two days and I would have run away with him again.

But I can't go back now, can I?

***

I couldn't stay angry like I wanted, though.

He saved me from a fire and we almost died in a carriage of the underground. How could I not forgive him? Or at least admit to myself I'd forgiven him the day he stood there in front of me with his silly smile and his stupid face?

I tried very hard to not think about him, though. I tried not to think about him when I lay down beside Mary, when I held her hand in mine. When I was cooking, when I stood in the shower, when I was watching telly, when I was reading the newspapers. I tried very _very_ hard not to think about him.

One of my solutions was actually proposing to Mary, and every time I thought about him for too long, I would arrange something or other for the wedding.

But I couldn't control my dreams. I couldn't run away from them or stop them.

We were running, chasing, blood pumping through our veins, our hearts beating together. We would arrive at Bakerstreet -home-, out of breath and with aching bellies from laughing. He would look at me. I would look at him. Our hearts would beat faster for very different reasons than exertion. He would come closer, closer closer still. Closing me in against the wall. Involuntarily, I would tip my head up to him. Heavy breath between our faces. _Take me take me take me._

In another one, I'm looking through a crack in the door into his bedroom. He's sitting on his bed, with his back to me. He's taking off his clothes and marble skin reveals itself to me. He reminds me of Snow White and I feel like the hunter who wants his heart. I don't blink when he exposes more and more of himself. I want to come closer, but the floorboards creak under my weight and just before he turns around, the dream ends.

The truth is that I didn't want them to stop.

I always felt so guilty.

I kissed Mary, bought her a present and made love to her on the nights I couldn't bear the guilt.

***

For the record, I'm not gay.

They are just dreams, they don't mean anything.

I'm just confused.

I love Mary.

I'm not gay.

***

He's such a damn good actor.

Sometimes I wanted he would show something. Anything. Just show the tiniest hint of emotion.

I often wanted to crawl into his head, to walk into his mind palace. What was he really thinking? Of cases? Of the wedding? Of Mary? Of me?

What was he really thinking of the world?

I felt screams inside of me. _Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

And questions, endless questions. _What do you think? What do you feel? Why two years? Why didn't you call me, text me, write me, let me know? Why don't you like the solar system? Do you think of me, too? Do you dream about me, too? Do you try not to think of me, too? What happened in those two years? Why are you so afraid to tell me the truth?_

Just tell me the truth for once.

Just this once.

***

I should stop this. I should stand up and go home or lie down and sleep until I'm sober, I should walk away and arrange things for the wedding. I should be doing anything but play this game. Anything but filling my glass again, filling his glass again, which I was doing.

But I couldn't stop. He was sitting there, in front of me. So relaxed, so drunk, so out of control.

We were so unlike ourselves and so like ourselves at the same time that I did something very unlike and very like myself. I slipped closer and put my hand on his leg. When I noticed, I took it back and mumbled that I didn't mind.

We played some more, but the cards on our heads were really just an excuse to stare at each other.

If he'd kept playing the game like it should be played, nothing would have happened. But instead of answering yes or no when I asked if I was a pretty lady, he stared into my eyes and breathed: "the prettiest".

My glass fell on the carpet with a soft thud. Since when were our faces so close to each other? Since when were his eyes so blue, so desperate?

There was something in his eyes, something innocent and helpless, that made me close the distance between us. He whined when our lips touched. His hands were everywhere at once and mine were unbuttoning his shirt before I even knew what I was doing. He came on my lap, I lifted him as soon as his shirt fell to the floor, and took him to his bedroom. His fingers dug into my back, clawed at me so I wouldn't let him go.

And we didn't let go of each other, not when I undressed him, not when I undressed myself. I knew he was looking at me, making a map of my skin, searching my eyes, but I held them closed. I was just feeling. Feeling his marble skin against mine, hunting down his heart.

When I felt the scars on his back, he put a finger on my lips and whispered me not to say anything about it.

We were elbows and knees and desperation. We were heat and sweat and closeness. We were lost years and lonely hearts.

I only opened my eyes when I was pounding into him and he was lost, not in this world anymore, only in this moment. I knew his eyes were closed, and that's why I dared to open mine. I'm cowardly like that.

He was like a fallen angel. His dark curls were a dark cloud full of rain, plastered to his skin with the drops that had already fallen. His cheeks were red, his brow was furrowed with all the sensations he was feeling. His back was arched so he could feel everything and he gleamed with sweat.

"Beautiful," I whispered and kissed his exposed neck. He didn't seem to hear me, he was too far gone.

The sight of him made me pound harder and harder and harder, until he was screaming my name, until he lost himself completely. And that was enough for me.

Wherever he goes, I follow.

***

I pretended to be asleep already when he said he loved me.

***

When I woke up, he was holding me tightly, holding me as close as possible.

I had a headache and I was grateful for it. It was the beginning of my punishment. It made me think clearly again.

I started arranging things for the wedding in my head when I slipped out of his arms.

Now it was his time to pretend to be asleep. He didn't move or stir, but his lips were pursed ever so slightly. Anyone who hadn't lived with him for years, wouldn't have noticed, but he didn't fool me this time. He could never fool me again.

I dressed again, and looked at him from at the door.

I didn't know how we could ever go on after this. How I could look at him and not think about him screaming my name or whispering that he loved me. I could never look at him the same way.

If he'd just played the game like it should be played, nothing would have happened. I wondered if he thought it had been worth it.

After all, he'd known I couldn't love him. Not with my wedding this week.

He must have known.

I closed the door behind me and left.


End file.
